{poem #5 from the poem-a-day, Ouroboros Project - this is a weird one}
The Description (black and white)
The clouds bubble, grey with love; if they were an indulgent
cartoon they would be flowing sheets of floating lavender-like ottomans, the
grayness sliding through whilst their fair share of cherubim sat,
soft-buttocked on the silky cloud shaped pews; they don’t hold rain.
The clouds ripple like tar, black with spite, spittle at the
corners of a hidden beastly mouth, the teeth glisten; if it were a mural it
would tear itself from the wall’s mantle, shed the visage of inanimacy and
consume us all in a thunderous howling horror; they hold rain.
The rain is ceaseless and cascades through the loving
dimensions, forward, backward, obliquely to and fro – sheeting warmth, the
caress like the liquid of the divinity; some kind of unwanted baptism, but it’s
there for us all, should we need it.
The deluge is unending, torturous, stretching in every
direction, the substantial driblets tap and beat agony upon the skin like a
switch on a captured Dickensian scoundrel, too young to be a roustabout; the
urine of hell’s hounds thrown down on us all.
“Coming, ready or not,” the thunder exclaims joyfully to the
land, and so it does, louder, louder, louder, so much love in its voice, so
much to say that is an encouragement to us all all all; “I love you,” it
mutters brilliantly, “keep going.”
“I detest you and your entity,” the thunder peels like the
sound of a fish knife running from maw down the throat emptying a black stomach
with a belch of disdain; “I hate you,” it assures coldly, “you’re ending as we
speak.”
Lightening dances along the horizon, teasing the hills and
they groan with a joyful whimper, a knowing sigh follows; the rapture of
nature’s affront.
Lightening fractures the horizon, raping the hills; they
articulate a groan of pain as the malice washes over them; the rapture of
nature’s brutality.
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